Page 57 of A Wish for Us

“With your music?”

“I don’t spin for free, Farraday.” I knew he was the most streamed EDM DJ in Europe—hell, maybe the U.S. too for all I knew. I hadn’t really thought of him like that. I’d forgotten he was Cromwell Dean, up-and-coming EDM star. It seemed crazy to me.

Especially when I knew what he could create in classical.

Cromwell had sat with Easton and me every lunchtime this week. He’dsat beside me in all the classes we shared. He had hardly spoken, but he’d been there. I didn’t know what to make of it.

I certainly didn’t know what to make of right now.

“So, any clues to where we’re going?”

Cromwell shook his head. “You’ll just have to wait and see.” I couldn’t help it; I laughed.

“You’re not at the bar tonight, or at the Barn? Won’t all your adoring fans—and by fans I mean girls—miss you?”

“I’m sure they’ll survive,” he said dryly. It only made me smile wider.

Cromwell pulled out onto the freeway. I frowned, wondering where we were going. “Can I put your radio on?” I asked.

Cromwell nodded his head. When I switched it on, I wasn’t surprised to hear fast tempos, pounding crescendos, and slamming beats. EDM. I sighed. “I guess this comes with the territory, huh? If I’m in your car?”

“What do you have against EDM?” he asked. He kept glancing between me and the road.

“Nothing, really. I just don’t know how you could pick this over all the other genres.”

“You like folk.”

“I like acoustic folk. I write the music and the lyrics.”

“I create the beats, the rhythms, and the tempos.” He turned up the current track. “This is one of my most recent.” He looked at me. “Close your eyes.” I raised my eyebrow. “Just shut them, Farraday.” I did as he asked. “Listen to the breakdown.Reallylisten. Hear the beat and how it carries the base of the song. Hear the layers. How the tempo changes with each sound, the keyboard, how they overlap until I have five or six layers that all work seamlessly.” I did. I let myself use all my senses to drink it in, shedding each layer one by one until I heard all of the composition. My shoulders moved to the beat, the tempo controlling my movements. And I felt myself smile. I built back the layers in my head, until they were a fusion of sounds and rhythms and beats.

“I hear it,” I said, so quietly I didn’t know if he could hear me over his music. When I opened my eyes, Cromwell turned down the volume. I sighed in defeat. “I heard it,” I said again.

Cromwell glanced at me from the side of his eye. “I think you’re a music snob, Farraday.”

“What?”

He nodded. “Classical, folk, country, any other genre, really. All but EDM. Computer-created sounds.” He shook his head. “You’re a snob.” I didn’t know why, but being called a snob in an English accent made it feel so much worse.

“I’m not at all. I…I…”

“I what?” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice.

“I really don’t like you at times,” I said, fully understanding that I sounded like a two-year-old.

“I know you don’t,” he said, but there was no belief in his tone. Because as much as I hadn’t liked Cromwell Dean, I was beginning to. That was a lie. I already liked him.

And that’s what terrified me.

Cromwell pulled into the road that led to the Jefferson Museum. I sat in confusion as he pulled us to a stop at the nearly deserted parking lot. “I think it’s closed,” I said as Cromwell got out of the truck. He opened my door and held out his hand. “Come on.”

I slid my hand in his, trying to keep it from shaking. I thought he’d let go of my hand as we made our way down the path to the entrance. But he didn’t. He kept tight hold. I tried to keep up with him, but I couldn’t. Cromwell stopped. “You okay? You’re limping.”

“I twisted my ankle,” I said, feeling the tinny taste of lies on my tongue.

“Can you walk?” The truth was, it was becoming more and more difficult. But I wouldn’t give up.

I was determined to fight.

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